


The One That Matters

by tinzelda



Series: The One That Matters Series [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Don't mess with Mila Babicheva, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, Otabek POV, Otabek is a sweetie under all that leather and denim, Romantic Fluff, Second Kiss, Sexual Tension, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice), Well fluff with a bit of soul-searching conversation, Yuri Plisetsky is a brat but we love him anyway, Yurio’s exhibition program
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 18:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: The events of the “Welcome to the Madness” manga and DVD extras—and how things progress from there—from Otabek’s point of view.





	The One That Matters

**Author's Note:**

> I was lucky: I watched season 1 with a friend who immediately showed me Yurio’s exhibition free skate and the manga translation. Very inspiring. *nods enthusiastically* I imagine you have all already seen these, but just in case:
> 
> “Welcome to the Madness” manga: https://aminoapps.com/c/yuri-on-ice-4114513/page/blog/welcome-to-the-madness-manga-full-ver/QjVQ_xEtXueqGabzKoQnVoMbNzmEVpVwba
> 
> Yurio’s GPF exhibition free skate: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5qan3p

“You goin’ out somewhere?”

Otabek turned to see Yuri Plisetsky dashing out of the hotel restaurant, headed straight for him.

“Yeah,” Otabek said. “An acquaintance of mind is DJing at a club nearby, so I thought I’d stop by.”

Yuri’s face split into a bright smile.

“Seriously? Lemme come too!”

Otabek’s first impulse was to agree. It would be more fun with company, and he was relieved to see Yuri looking so cheerful, considering the way he’d broken down on the ice after his free skate. Then he’d been in a strange daze for the first hour or so after leaving the podium. However, just in time, Otabek remembered an important stumbling block to any plan that involved bringing Yuri along.

“Yuri,” he said. “How old are you now?”

“I’m fifteen.”

Yuri’s pout was adorable. Otabek was tempted to tease.

“Gonna be sixteen next March,” Yuri added, as if that solved the problem.

Otabek sighed. “Sorry, I can’t bring you along.”

“Huh? You’re only eighteen yourself.” Now, Yuri didn’t look so adorable. His face twisted in anger. “You’re abandoning me on a night when I’m all messed up inside? And you call yourself my friend?”

He shook one fist in the air—a melodramatic gesture worthy of the worst kind of high school drama club acting.

“ _Yuri_ —”

“We’re through, dammit!” Yuri yelled.

Otabek knew Yuri didn’t mean it. He was just being dramatic. It was a side effect of being a passionate person, and Otabek didn’t mind it.

He didn’t want Yuri to feel abandoned and would have liked to keep an eye on him, but that protective urge in itself was worrisome. They barely knew each other. It wasn’t Otabek’s place to take care of Yuri, and his strong desire to do so was all the more reason to march himself out the door.

He put a hand on Yuri’s shoulder in passing, but he shrugged off Otabek’s grasp and stormed away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Otabek said, though Yuri gave no indication of having heard.

Outside, the air was clear but chilly. As Otabek walked around the corner to the alley where he’d parked his motorcycle, he saw the shop where he’d bought coffee that morning.

He paused.

Part of him—a big part—wanted to go into the shop, buy two large coffees and a bag full of pastries, and head back to the hotel—back to Yuri. Caffeine and sweets would probably placate him, and they could hole up in one of their rooms and watch a movie. Or just talk.

Otabek pushed himself to keep walking.

He’d enjoy a cozy evening with Yuri. Maybe a little too much.

*****

Two hours later, Otabek was wishing he’d let himself off the hook and gone back to the hotel. It was good to see Matteo, but it wasn’t like they could really catch up while he was working. They had to shout to hear each other over the pounding beat. Otabek’s head was starting to throb with the music.

A trio of giggling girls approached, distracting Matteo with requests. While Matteo flirted, Otabek took over the sound board. As he worked, he gauged the crowd at the bar. How long would he have to wait to get the bartender’s attention? Maybe something to drink would help his headache.

As Otabek scanned the throng, his gaze snagged on a guy standing at the far end of the bar. He was just Otabek’s type: slim but athletic. Otabek’s eyes traced up lean thighs hugged by tight black pants. The guy’s jacket covered the rest of his body—that was a shame. His mop of fair hair was pulled away from his face.

_Wait a minute._

The guy turned, tilting his head down to peer over his dark sunglasses. It was undeniably Yuri.

And Otabek had undeniably been checking him out.

A vivid memory sprang into Otabek’s mind: Yuri on the back of his bike, pressed close as they sped away from those determined fans. He pushed the thought from his mind.

_What’s Yuri doing here?_

That was a stupid question.

_Did he tail me?_

Otabek knew he should send Yuri back to the hotel. If he didn’t listen, Otabek could tell one of the bouncers. They’d kick him out. But before Otabek could even pull off the headphones and get Matteo’s attention, Yuri saw him and gave him a grin full of mischief.

Otabek shook his head. Although he knew it was a mistake to give in, he couldn’t help but smile back. When Yuri’s face lit up like that, he was irresistible.

The next song was already queued up, so Otabek hit the button to start it, then tapped Matteo’s shoulder. Still flirting with his fans, he held up a hand.

Otabek turned back to the sound board to find Yuri climbing over the controls, his eyes a little crazed.

“Otabek! I want to skate to this song for my exhibition!”

Yuri was as wildly energetic now as he’d been sulky and dejected back at the hotel. His behavior was drawing attention, especially the way he’d scaled the sound equipment. Though moments before, Otabek had been planning to rat him out to the staff, he didn’t really want to cause trouble. Instead, he herded Yuri toward the door, breathing much easier once they were out in the cool night air.

“Otabek, that song. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For the exhibition.”

“Don’t you already have a program?”

Yuri made a face like someone had ordered him to finish his broccoli. “I’m sick of it.”

“But the exhibition is tomorrow.”

“So? We can come up with something.”

“We?”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight. Will you help me?”

Even out on the pavement, Otabek could still hear the noise from the club, thumping like his lingering headache.

“Let’s walk a little. We can talk about it.”

Otabek turned toward the waterfront, and Yuri fell into step with him happily enough, chattering about all the jumps he wanted to incorporate into his new program. Otabek spied a bench right by the water, so he headed for it. Yuri sat down so close beside him that their elbows jostled.

“So,” Otabek said, readying himself for another verbal onslaught. “You want to change your whole program?”

Yuri nodded. His eyes reflected the streetlight next to the bench. Otabek had never seen him so animated without hurling insults.

“Lilia choreographed the one I’ve been doing.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s lame. It’s too much like the Agape choreography.”

“Lame?” Otabek said. “I bet most other skaters couldn’t pull it off.”

“Okay, but it’s _boring_. People will clap and throw flowers at me and then forget all about it.”

“You want to get their attention.”

“Yes!” Yuri grabbed the sleeve of Otabek’s jacket. “Yes, exactly!”

“You don’t think they were paying attention today?”

Yuri dismissed Otabek’s words with a flippant wave of one hand, as if winning Grand Prix gold wasn’t worth mentioning—at fifteen years old, no less.

A chilly breeze came in off the water, and Yuri wrapped his jacket tightly around his body. It was for style, not warmth, and before Otabek even thought about it, he wrapped one arm around Yuri, hoping to shield him from the worst of the wind. Yuri peeked at Otabek from the corner of his eye, then tilted his chin down so that his hair hid his face.

_What the hell am I doing?_ Otabek thought. _He’s only fifteen, and the last thing he needs is to be pushed out of the closet while he trains in Russia._

But Otabek couldn’t seem to help himself. He couldn’t help that he liked Yuri’s insolent glares. Even his rudeness hinted at a spirit that fascinated Otabek. He liked how comfortable it felt to have Yuri tucked up against his side like that—the way Yuri’s shoulders seemed made to fit under his arm.

Otabek sighed.

“What?” Yuri demanded. “What is it?”

“I think you’re crazy,” Otabek answered, but he gave Yuri a gentle squeeze when he said it so he would know it was a joke.

“But you’ll help me?”

“I’ll help. Tomorrow. Tonight, you have to go back to your room.”

“You come with me,” Yuri said, pounding his fist on Otabek’s thigh. “I want another ride on your motorcycle.”

“No.”

Yuri stuck his bottom lip out in a childish pout, and Otabek pretended to be immune to its effects.

Otabek rose from the bench. “Come on, time to go.”

“If go back,” Yuri said, “will you get me a copy of that song?”

“Don’t you already have music?”

“I told you, it’s boring.”

“Fine,” Otabek said. “I’ll get my friend to burn a CD for you if you go back to the hotel _right now_.”

“What’s to stop me from just going somewhere else to dance?”

Otabek glared, but Yuri just gave him an insolent smile.

“Okay,” Otabek said. “When you get to the hotel, text me a selfie in front of something at the hotel I’ll recognize, so I know for sure.”

Yuri grumbled but rose from the bench. “You won’t forget the song?”

“I promise.”

Otabek went back to the club and waited. He thought Yuri would be slow, dragging his feet like a kid whose parents sent him to bed early, but quicker than Otabek thought possible, he got a texted photo: Yuri was in the foreground with a big, cheesy grin, while behind him a befuddled Katsuki Yuuri stood in the open door of room 438 sporting a hotel bathrobe and terrible case of bedhead.

Otabek smiled.

_Cruel. But I wouldn’t have you any other way._

Otabek kicked himself. Why couldn’t he stop flirting with this kid?

Otabek’s phone vibrated with several texts, one after another.

First, an emoji: the smiley face with devil horns.

Then:

_Text me when you get back_

_SO MANY IDEAS_

_Want to tell you_

_It will be very late_

_So what?_

_Too late_

_I’ll be up_

_Go to sleep. Talk in morning_

_Ugh. Boring._

_Have time slot in practice rink_

_Private_

_You come with?_

...

_Ok_

*****

The next morning, Otabek knocked on Yuri’s door as soon as he was up, but there was no answer. Yuri must have already left for the practice rink. On the way to meet him, Otabek picked up two huge cups of coffee. He sipped as he walked, so he was almost awake by the time he got there.

Yuri was already on the ice, his fair cheeks flushed by exercise, and greeted Otabek with a smile. The expression was surprisingly shy at first but grew wider when Otabek held out the second cup.

“Thank you,” Yuri said after he’d taken a few gulps. “I rushed out so fast this morning I forgot all about coffee.”

“Eager to get started?” Otabek asked.

“Just warming up,” Yuri said, looking sheepish.

Obviously it wasn’t _cool_ to be enthusiastic about anything. Especially something like a mandatory exhibition.

“Did you bring the song?”

Yuri’s voice had a touch of his usual grumpy rudeness. He had mostly stopped using it with Otabek since he’d climbed on the back of his motorcycle to flee his rabid fans. Now that Otabek thought about it, Yuri’d gotten downright sweet with him, most of the time.

Yuri held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

“Demanding, aren’t you?” Otabek asked, but he reached into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out the CD.

Yuri grinned, grabbed the CD, and zipped away across the ice to where a portable player sat on the wall surrounding the rink.

Otabek dug into his bag for his skates and kicked off his boots. By the time he was laced up and ready to go, Yuri had the music blaring and was trying out some choreography.

Otabek watched, not wanting to interrupt. Yuri paused several times, going still, planning more than executing.

When the song ended, Otabek called out, “Let me see what you have so far.”

Yuri spun around and smiled. Again there was an unexpected shyness to the expression.

Otabek expected Yuri to walk him through the routine verbally, maybe showing him a few moves here and there, but instead Yuri skated right to the center of the rink, asking Otabek to restart the CD. Otabek stepped onto the ice, taking the direct route to where the CD player was rather than going the long way around the outside of the rink.

Yuri went through the almost a full minute of the program with the music, and if Otabek hadn’t just seen Yuri concentrating—obviously working it out in his head—he would never have believed it was new.

Yuri stopped halfway through the song and made his way over to where Otabek was waiting.

“So what did you think?”

“How much of that did you take from your old program?” Otabek asked

“What do you mean?”

“Was most of that already in your exhibition program, and you just adapted it for this music?”

Yuri laughed. Otabek had only heard his laughter a handful of times, and never like this: spontaneous and carefree. It made him seem painfully young, and Otabek wondered for the hundredth time what he was doing, carrying on with Yuri like this.

“Are you kidding?” Yuri asked. “That’s why I hate the old one. It’s all—” He broke off and performed a perfect penché arabesque before coming to rest in an elegant fourth position.

Otabek couldn’t help but marvel at Yuri’s every movement. He had no idea how _perfect_ he was. How beautiful. The Russian fairy. It was the perfect nickname for him. Not because his grace was feminine—because it belonged to another world.

Yuri was waiting, his eyebrows tilted in a slight frown.

“You came up with all of that choreography? Just this morning?” Otabek asked. “Without even having the music?”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “No, I found the music last night. I played it a bunch of times on my phone and figured some of it out.” His lower lip jutted out in a slight pout as he continued. “What else was I supposed to do once you ditched me?”

“I didn’t ditch you,” Otabek said. “But that’s really amazing.”

“What’s amazing?”

“That you could choreograph so much of it in your head and then do it without practicing—already so polished.”

Yuri shrugged, then skated away backwards, trying out some footwork. He was back in choreographer mode, barely noticing Otabek’s awe at his skills. Or maybe he just took that kind of reaction for granted.

Yuri didn’t need much help. He ran through the song more than a dozen times in quick succession, adding and subtracting elements, adjusting the order, completing more and more of the program until he had a solid two minutes.

“I’m still not happy with the footwork,” Yuri said. He tried that section of the routine without the music.

Otabek watched Yuri try several combinations of steps before speaking up. “Skip that part.”

Yuri stopped dead and stared. “What?”

“It seems too—” Otabek stopped, faltering in the face of Yuri’s glare.

“ _What?_ ” Yuri repeated. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Come on, just tell me.”

“The step sequence seems fussy, compared to the rest of the program.”

“ _Fussy?_ ” Yuri let out an abrupt exhale, his lower lip sticking out so his hair blew away from his face, giving a brief glimpse of both narrowed eyes.

“The rest of the program is dynamic. Very rock and roll.”

“Yeah?”

“This is just an exhibition. No requirements. So skip the fussy stuff and show off some more,” Otabek said. “How about a split jump?”

Yuri’s thunderous expression disappeared. He liked the idea.

“Okay. I’ll try it.” He returned to the center of the ice. “Music?”

Otabek obliged, and this time, after the split jump, Yuri was grinning like a maniac as he finished the program. He whipped through his last few jumps, and then when the music ended, he called, “That’s perfect.”

He dashed back over to Otabek, barely slowing down as he approached. He used his momentum to grab Otabek’s hand and drag him along. Otabek turned his blades sideways into a hockey stop, clinging to Yuri’s hand so he couldn’t break away.

“Hey! Let go!”

Otabek ignored him, instead tugging on Yuri’s arm to pull him in a circle. Yuri wriggled his fingers, trying to release them from Otabek’s grasp. He was frowning, but Otabek wasn’t fooled. It was obvious that Yuri was enjoying himself.

After three complete loops, Otabek let go. Momentum sent Yuri sailing backward. He took it with perfect composure, his balance not tottering for even an instant. He placed both hands on his hips and faked another scowl.

Fighting a grin, Otabek rushed to catch up, this time grabbing Yuri around the waist and lifting him. Yuri shouted a protest and struggled in Otabek’s arms, but when Otabek spiraled into a spin, Yuri burst out laughing, going limp and letting his head fall into Otabek’s shoulder.

“Fine,” Yuri said. “I give up.”

“It’s no fun if you give up.”

As the spin slowed, Otabek lowered Yuri back onto his skates, but he couldn’t bring himself to withdraw his arm from around Yuri’s waist. Chest to chest, they stared at each other.

Otabek knew he was holding on to the moment longer than he should but couldn’t resist reaching up with one hand to push the hair out of Yuri’s face. He wanted to really look at him. Yuri’s expression shifted, the playfulness fading and his eyes going wide.

“ _Otabek_ ,” Yuri said—breathless.

Otabek couldn’t catch his breath either. This was too much.

Slowly, Otabek slid his arm from around from Yuri’s body and backed away. Yuri looked unhappy—somewhere between angry and confused—so Otabek took his hand, wanting to maintain some connection, and tugged him into motion again. They skated the length of the rink, pulling and shoving each other all the way, but their hands always linked. Once Yuri’s expression cleared, Otabek released his hold, propelling him toward the center of the ice.

“Show me again,” Otabek said, “from the beginning.”

“I’ll do it again . . .” Yuri planted his toe picks, bringing himself to an abrupt stop, then looked at Otabek sidelong. “For a kiss.”

Otabek raised his eyebrows, and Yuri gave him a devilish grin.

“Do you bargain like this with Yakov?” Otabek asked.

“I don’t want to kiss Yakov,” Yuri answered, then sped off.

Otabek was surprised at the way his heart raced.

“But you do want to kiss _me_?”

“Duh.” Yuri slowed and looked over his shoulder. “And you want to kiss me too. Don’t try to deny it.”

“So sure of yourself.”

“Yup,” Yuri said. He took up his position, head tilted up to an imaginary spotlight. “Now start the music.”

Yuri skated the program flawlessly—with the split jump as well as a couple of other new elements—and closed with his final pose: feet spread far apart and one fist raised to the roof.

Otabek applauded as Yuri skated over the ice toward him.

“You like it?” Yuri asked with a bright smile.

“I do,” Otabek answered.

Yuri fisted one hand in the front of Otabek’s sweatshirt and tugged him closer. “So where’s my kiss?”

Otabek tilted his head and stroked his chin. It was a cartoon-ish pose adopted as he pretended to consider the matter. He wanted to kiss Yuri, and he wasn’t going to deny it. But wouldn’t that be a stupid thing to do?

“Hey!” Yuri said, using his grip in Otabek’s sweatshirt to shake him from side to side. “A deal’s a deal.”

“Okay,” Otabek said.

He bent his head and pressed a kiss to Yuri’s cheek.

Yuri let out a disgusted huff of hair. “No fair.”

“You didn’t specify the exact nature of the kiss.”

Yuri pouted and glared at the same time. It was a surprisingly endearing look—at least on Yuri.

“Always read the fine print before you agree to anything,” Otabek said. “The details are important.”

Yuri released his hold on Otabek’s sweatshirt, shoving him backwards as he did so. But he was struggling to hide his smile. He liked their cat-and-mouse flirtation as much as Otabek did.

Otabek pushed forward, reaching for Yuri, who scrambled backward to avoid his hand. Otabek gave chase until he caught hold of Yuri’s arm, twirling him around until they were face to face again. Otabek rested his hands on Yuri’s waist, but before the mood could turn romantic, he poked his thumbs under Yuri’s ribs to see if he was ticklish.

It turned out, Yuri was _very_ ticklish.

It was too much temptation to resist.

Otabek stopped only when Yuri was gasping for breath and almost falling on his ass as he struggled to get away.

“You bastard,” Yuri panted, half-heartedly punching Otabek’s shoulder.

As a kind of apology Otabek hugged Yuri close, and he went quiet. They were caught in yet another perfect first kiss moment, but Otabek couldn’t quite take the leap. Yuri looked like such a kid—his hair a mess and face flushed from being tickled.

“Want to go through the program one more time?” Otabek asked in a desperate attempt at distraction.

Luckily Yuri didn’t seem bothered by the abrupt switch. He shook his head.

“I want it to stay fresh. Besides, we only have a few more hours, and I wanna choreograph a new program for you too.”

Otabek snorted. “That’s not how it works for the rest of us.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can’t just make up a completely new program and perform it a few hours later. It takes me weeks—practicing it over and over. You have no idea how amazing you are.”

Yuri paid more attention to Otabek’s praise this time. His cheeks went pink, and he seemed to want to argue without knowing exactly what to say.

“But still, let’s run through yours one more time, hm? You might be sure of yourself, but I’ll be less nervous if you practice just a little more.”

“Yes, sir,” Yuri said with an exaggerated salute. “No kiss for you though, ‘cause you sound like Yakov.”

The way Yuri said it made the idea of Otabek as a coach seem ridiculous. But he’d thought about coaching. He’d thought about it a lot.

He knew he didn’t have the staying power of a skater like Yuri, who would undoubtedly be working well into his twenties, like Victor. Yuri would be able to save enough to live comfortably for a long time. Otabek, however, would need a job in a few years, and he was too practical to think he could make a decent living as a DJ.

“What the hell?” Yuri called, though his tone was teasing, not truly rude. “Start the music!”

Otabek hit the play button on the CD player but couldn’t seem to shake his distraction. Halfway through the song, Yuri cut one of his combinations short and stomped over.

“You’re not even watching.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll watch next time.”

Yuri didn’t move.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Otabek said.

He reached for Yuri’s hand before he realized what he was doing. How had this so quickly become a reflex? He knew he shouldn’t keep letting things like this happen, but Yuri smiled, softly, and Otabek wove their fingers together. Yuri slid closer and leaned his shoulder into Otabek’s arm.

After a long, not-completely-comfortable pause, Otabek blurted out what had been bothering him. “Did I really sound like a coach?”

Yuri looked startled. “I was joking! I don’t really think you sound like Yakov.”

“I know,” Otabek said. He must have let his disappointment creep into his expression, because Yuri fixed him with his sharp gaze.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Would it be so bad?”

“Would _what_ be so bad?” Yuri asked. “If you sounded like Yakov? _Yes._ Seriously. _Ew_.”

Otabek squeezed Yuri’s hand, and Yuri squeezed back.

“I think I might like being a coach,” Otabek said.

“Oh,” Yuri said. He looked surprised but not necessarily disapproving. “I think you’d be great. As long as you start talking.”

“What do you mean?”

Yuri snorted. “I bet you’ve talked more to me in the last few days than you’ve talked to everyone else you know in the last month.”

Otabek made a face.

“Am I wrong?” Yuri demanded.

“No. But you don’t have to look so smug about it.”

Yuri tugged on Otabek’s hand. “What are you saying? You want to retire? Go back to Almaty and teach a bunch of stupid kids?”

“Maybe,” Otabek said. “Not _yet_ , but someday.”

“You wouldn’t enjoy your retirement for very long,” Yuri said. “You’d asphyxiate or get lung cancer, with all the smog in that damn city.”

Yuri’s words made Otabek pause.

“Did you look up Almaty?” Otabek asked. “Were you curious about me?”

For a split second, Yuri looked sheepish, realizing he was caught, but then he grinned slyly and waggled his eyebrows in a caricature of seductiveness. “I’m curious about a lot of things.”

Otabek snorted. “Get back to work.”

“Now you definitely sound like a coach.”

“Well, your free leg looked sloppy on that last combination. You _need_ a coach.”

Yuri moved away as if to return to practicing, but Otabek didn’t let go of his hand.

“What about you?” Otabek asked. “Will you go back to Moscow when you retire?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Not at all?”

“I’m only fifteen, as you keep reminding me. Not that you’re all that much older than me. I don’t think we need to figure it all out right now.”

“But you want to go home someday, right?”

“Maybe. For my grandpa. Unless he would be willing to move somewhere else,” Yuri said. “He might do it. For me.”

_I would move anywhere for you_ , Otabek found himself thinking. He wasn’t stupid enough to say it out loud. He couldn’t help but imagine it, though: the two of them together, founding a school. . . .

He shouldn’t be looking so far into the future. He’d made a lot of problems for himself in his one previous relationship by acting like it had to be forever. It had scared the guy off.

Yuri’s voice interrupted Otabek’s reverie. “Is that why you’re helping me?”

“What?”

“Because you want to be a coach?”

“No, I just—I don’t know. Just want to help, I guess.”

Yuri frowned.

“What is it?” Otabek asked, giving Yuri’s hand another squeeze.

Yuri shook his head. His hair fell forward, hiding his face.

“Come on,” Otabek urged.

When Yuri finally answered, it came out in a whisper. “Nobody’s ever this nice to me unless they want something.”

_I just want to be your friend_ , Otabek thought. But it sounded juvenile, so he gripped Yuri’s hand even tighter and said, “I don’t want anything more than this.”

Yuri didn’t respond.

“I see how people are around you,” Otabek said. “You’re so talented. People latch onto you. It sucks. I feel almost lucky that I get ignored.”

“That’s a new one,” Yuri said. “Most of the time, people hate me because they’re jealous.”

“Oh, I’m jealous too.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not like the others.”

“I am jealous,” Otabek said. “But I forget about all that when I watch you skate because it’s beautiful.”

Yuri looked up, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He smiled then, a genuine smile—no teasing or sarcasm.

“Maybe that’s why we get along,” Yuri said, his voice quiet. “You don’t care about fame and stuff. You just push yourself to do better.”

“I try.”

Yuri fell quiet. Otabek was about to nudge him to get him back to practice when he spoke up again.

“I know I can be . . . an asshole. But it’s because I’d rather people hate me for that than because of my skating. I love skating too much to let it be something people hate me for. I get pissed too—that they feel like they own me or something. Fans, Lilia, even Yakov sometimes.”

Otabek was impressed by Yuri’s awareness. Otabek had already guessed some of the reasons for Yuri’s attitude, but he had assumed that at his age, Yuri himself wouldn’t be perceptive enough to understand.

“I used to get pissed like you,” Otabek admitted. “More because I wasn’t as good as I wanted to be. But you helped me see that it’s a waste of time being angry.”

“I helped?” Yuri said. “What do you mean?”

“At training camp. When I saw you there—so strong, so graceful, so perfect. Even though you were years younger than me, I knew I’d never been as good as you. So I—”

Yuri cut Otabek off, saying, “That’s not true.”

“It is true. I don’t have your natural talent, and all the hard work in the world won’t make up for it. But that’s only a problem if I try to do everything just like you. When I stopped doing ballet, I didn’t feel so angry. I needed to figure out my own way. I even thought about trying pairs skating.”

“What? _Pairs?_ ”

Maybe Yuri—gifted as he was—couldn’t imagine sharing his glory on the ice with someone else, but Otabek had wondered if getting a partner with more flash might give him an advantage—someone who needed his steadiness to balance them. He’d even tried out for a spot with a girl looking for a new partner, but when she agreed to start training with him on a trial basis, he decided it wasn’t for him after all.

“Anyway, figuring out my own way meant it stopped bothering me as much when I didn’t get on the podium.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri said. “ _Bullshit. You hate to lose.”_

Otabek nodded. “But only if I didn’t achieve what I wanted to achieve. If I feel like I failed myself. I’ve accepted that there are skaters better than me. I can make peace with that. I don’t compare myself to others.”

“I don’t compare myself to anyone else,” Yuri said.

“You aren’t chasing Victor?”

Yuri tried to pull his hand away, but Otabek held fast.

“Wait.” Otabek turned so that he was face to face with Yuri. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Competition drives you. But think about it: you’ve been fixated on Victor. You do it almost as much as Katsuki. Maybe that’s why he makes you so mad. But you don’t have to do that anymore. You won the gold. You broke Victor’s record, and you’re the youngest skater here.”

Otabek could see Yuri was shaken, though he forced a laugh.

“Victor’s coming back,” Yuri said. “Next year—”

Otabek cut him off. “Next year you’ll be even better than you are now. You’re going to keep getting better and better, and Victor—” Otabek didn’t want to speak ill of a man who had been a hero to them both, but he wanted to be completely honest with Yuri. “He’s a legend, but he’s been coaching, slacking off. I think he’s past his peak as a skater.”

Yuri looked like he wanted to object.

“This is a really long and awkward way of telling you I think this is great. Your exhibition program,” Otabek said. “Finding your own way. Thinking about what you want to show the world.”

Yuri didn’t smile, exactly, but he looked thoughtful, and eventually pleased. He leaned into Otabek’s body a bit more.

“So let’s run through it one more time,” Otabek said.

Yuri groaned.

“Just so your temporary coach doesn’t feel so nervous. And then I need a workout. Sitting here, just watching, is making me feel lazy.”

*****

Otabek was thankful for the locker room’s endless supply of hot water. He felt comfortable with Yuri, but knowing he was watching drove Otabek to work harder. He’d pushed himself during their workout and, rather than walk back to the hotel all sweaty, had decided to shower at the practice rink. Now he was lingering, luxuriating in the warm pounding spray on his sore muscles.

When he walked out of the shower room, towel around his neck, Yuri was waiting for him on a bench by the lockers. Otabek grabbed his towel and quickly tucked it around his waist.

Yuri snorted with laughter. “You’re _shy_? Come on, you must’ve changed in a room full of other skaters hundreds of times.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“It just is.” Otabek pulled a pair of boxers out of his bag and stepped into them. “It’s just the two of us here.”

“You’re worried about _me_ seeing you?”

Otabek didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to pull pants on over his underwear and under his towel.

“‘Cause you don’t have to worry,” Yuri said. “I like what I see.”

Otabek stumbled, one leg tangled in his jeans, while Yuri cackled. Otabek frowned.

“What?” Yuri said, pretending innocence.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

Otabek would have glared, but his head was stuck inside his shirt as he wrestled in on.

“You shouldn’t be leering in the locker room. You’re just a kid.”

“Will you quit it with that shit?”

Otabek got his head free in time to see Yuri’s furious expression.

“Yuri—”

“No, forget it!” Yuri sprang off the bench and snatched up his bag. “Dammit, you said you wanted to be friends, but you keep calling me a kid, like that makes me stupid, or not worth your time.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Screw you!”

Yuri stomped toward the exit.

“Yuri, don’t leave like that.”

Yuri threw the locker room door open so hard it slammed into the wall.

Just before it fell closed again, Otabek called out, “See you at the exhibition tonight.”

*****

Otabek called and texted all afternoon, but Yuri wouldn’t answer. When Otabek finally tracked him down at the arena early in the exhibition, Yuri hardly looked like himself. He wore dark makeup smeared over each eye that only intensified the ferocity of his scowl.

When Otabek stretched out one hand, Yuri jerked out of reach.

“You’re still mad at me,” Otabek said quietly.

“I’m not a kid!”

“You’re fifteen years old,” Otabek pointed out. “You are, by definition, a kid.”

“That’s crap. If I’m such a kid, why were you flirting with me all morning?

“Yuri—”

“I work every day. I’ve supported my whole family for _years_.”

“Okay.”

“I haven’t lived at home since I was ten, and I’ve—”

“ _Okay_.” Otabek put a soothing hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

Yuri stilled, but his frown didn’t relax.

Before Otabek could apologize again, a woman with a clipboard and a headset approached to give him a five-minute warning.

“I have to go,” Otabek said. “But we’ll talk after. Okay?”

Yuri nodded silently.

Luckily Otabek’s exhibition program was one he had done several times, so his lack of concentration wouldn’t lead to an embarrassing performance. The choreography was easy. It included challenging elements, but only those he had long ago mastered. Plus there was the luxury of wearing something he actually liked instead the embroidery or sparkles expected of the usual skating costume.

Halfway through his program, Otabek caught sight of Yuri standing rinkside with a subtle smile, and when Otabek left the ice, Yuri was there to greet him with a hug. Otabek wondered if Yuri’s enthusiasm meant he was forgiven.

Yuri punched Otabek’s shoulder. “You almost fooled me into thinking you were having fun out there.”

Otabek realized he _had_ been having fun—showing off for Yuri, just like Yuri enjoyed showing off for him. Could that be part of the reason Yuri had won gold? No, it wasn’t fair for Otabek to take any credit for that.

Normally Otabek would find an isolated seat to watch the rest of the exhibition on his own, but with Yuri slated to skate last, he decided to wait with him. For the next number, they stood shoulder to shoulder, Yuri snickering at JJ’s shameless pandering.

But Yuri went still the moment Katsuki started his program. Was Yuri still thinking like a competitor? Analyzing Katsuki’s every move, even after he’d already won?

When Victor joined Katsuki onto the ice, the crowd cheered, but Otabek watched Yuri more than what was going on in the rink. Yuri was captivated. Thunderous applause shook the arena as Katsuki and Victor finished. Yuri tore his gaze away and turned to Otabek.

Surrounded by the dark makeup, his eyes glowed like he was possessed.

“Come out onto the ice with me.”

“What?”

“Just do it.” Yuri grabbed Otabek’s hand. “ _Please_.”

“Like them?” Otabek gestured toward the rink, where Victor and Katsuki were bowing to the wildly applauding crowd, hands still clasped.

“No, nothing like that. They’re so sappy, it’s ridiculous.”

“They’re adults,” Otabek said. “They’re _engaged_.”

“That’s why you don’t want to help me? Because I’m a kid?”

Yuri’s hot temper threatened to flare again, and Otabek wanted to avoid that at all costs. But he also wanted to protect Yuri from doing something impulsive.

“No, I—”

“You’re the one who started this,” Yuri hissed. “I thought you wanted to be friends.”

“I do.”

“It seemed like maybe you wanted even more than that.”

Otabek couldn’t answer. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or at least he couldn’t admit it yet. So he avoided the question.

“I already took off my skates. They’re—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Yuri said with an impatient shake of his head. “Wear your boots. You don’t need to skate, just be out there.

Otabek sighed. “Fine.”

Excited, Yuri tugged on Otabek’s hand. “I made some changes.”

“To the program?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t tried them yet?”

“No.” Yuri took off running, dragging Otabek behind him. “Come on, there’s not much time.”

Yuri explained his changes to the choreography. Otabek thought the finger gun thing was pretty corny, but exhibition pieces were often light-hearted. And anyway, he was past arguing. He would do whatever Yuri asked.

Yuri put a hand on Otabek’s shoulder to steady himself as he took off his blade guards. “And I need help with my gloves.”

“Your gloves?”

“I want them off for the last part, but I can’t do it fast enough.”

Otabek sighed again. _Now I’m his costumer?_

“Just rip ‘em off when I hold out my hands.”

Otabek nodded obediently. Yuri rewarded him with another of his rare genuine smiles.

Otabek, as instructed, crept around the outside of the rink, ready to slip over the wall in the darkness. Hopefully nobody would notice he was there until Yuri looked in his direction.

When Victor and Katsuki finally finished waving to the still-cheering crowds and the flowers and stuffed animals were gathered from the ice, Yuri skated out with his usual confidence. The entire arena went black. As quietly as he could, Otabek climbed over the wall and waited. An overhead spotlight picked Yuri out of the darkness, and the music began.

Something about Yuri was different. During practice that morning, he’d been professional and playful by turns, but now—

Yuri peeked over his sunglasses, his gaze finding Otabek with laser precision. The makeup around his eyes, which in full light had made him look eerie and waifish, now highlighted his piercing eyes.

Yuri was—well, he was _hot_. He was still a kid, yes, but _this_ —

Otabek had seen the program before, but now it was a completely different experience. Yuri was in costume—in character. Not to mention that Otabek was no longer analyzing the choreography, just watching Yuri shine. He skated with all his considerable speed and grace, and added to that was a new energy, uniquely his. All of his strength. His passion. Even his anger. But still performing every element perfectly. It stole Otabek’s breath.

Yuri stripped off his jacket and tossed it aside. Somehow, that made him even more compelling—dressed all in black, his skin so pale. Nothing hiding the strong, lean lines of his body.

Otabek was mesmerized, almost forgetting he had a role to play. Yuri skated close, his eyes meeting Otabek’s with intense determination. Otabek watched as Yuri ripped off his sunglasses and aimed them at the fans in the stands. Yuri slapped his hand into Otabek’s. Otabek grabbed the glove, yanked it off, and reached for the other one.

But Yuri’s hand went to Otabek’s mouth, one finger sliding inside. Desire flooded through Otabek’s every cell. Helpless, he bit down, holding the fabric between his teeth as Yuri pulled his hand away.

It was a relief when Yuri spun back into his program, taking the crowd’s attention with him. Sharing the spotlight had been thrilling but left Otabek vulnerable, paranoid that everyone in the arena could read his mind.

The rest of the choreography was unrecognizable from that morning. Yuri had changed everything. He slid across the ice on his knees, bent back until his head almost touched the ice, his shirt riding up, revealing the muscled plane of his stomach. Otabek ached to chase the hem with his hands, to glide his palms up over Yuri’s ribs—all that perfect pale skin.

Without a second to spare, Otabek remembered to do the finger guns. Yuri timed his reaction just right, the consummate performer. Even his final sprawl had a strange beauty to it, and the audience went crazy.

When Yuri was back on his feet, Otabek approached, but not too close. He was desperate to touch Yuri but refused to do so on the ice. Instead, he kept his distance, letting the crowd adore Yuri as he deserved.

Otabek gritted his teeth with impatience and waved to the arena like a good-natured idiot—like it was all just for show. All in good fun.

But once Yuri had made a circuit around the rink, sweeping a few bouquets and a couple of stuffed cats into his arms, Otabek followed him off the ice, grabbed his hand, and dragged him into a dark corner. As soon as they were away from prying eyes, Otabek shoved the flowers and toys out of Yuri’s hands and pulled him close.

“Otabek?”

“ _Yuri_.”

The soft skin of Yuri’s exposed back was warm against Otabek’s palm. Yuri looked slim as a girl, but wrapped up in Otabek’s arms, pressed up against every inch of his body, he was all taut muscle, almost vibrating with the adrenalized energy of his performance.

Otabek dove in for a kiss. Yuri melted against him, his limps going lax and his head tilting back. His lips parted, inviting Otabek’s tongue to explore.

The kiss left Otabek panting.

When their mouths parted, Yuri looked almost drunk, his neck wobbly and his eyes half-lidded. Otabek’s hand was fisted in Yuri’s hair, and he bent his head for another kiss, but in that moment, Yuri seemed to wake up.

He stumbled backward, eyes wide.

Suddenly he was a kid again, playing with fire. Otabek should have kept him from getting burned.

“Yuri, I—”

Before Otabek could find words, Yuri turned and ran.

*****

Otabek woke quietly. It was still dark outside, and as soon as he opened his eyes, he closed them again, wishing he could return to his dreams.

It was far from the first time he’d dreamed about Yuri. Over the last two months, he’d had dozens of dreams that ranged from shameful—Yuri pressed close with flashing eyes and greedy hands—to discouraging—Yuri on the ice, as graceful and elusive as a creature of faerie while Otabek stumbled along behind, desperate to keep up.

All of these dreams were frustrating.

But this time, Otabek felt wistful. His dream had been oddly specific. He’d been with Yuri on the morning before the Grand Prix exhibition skate, planning the new choreography while they teased and laughed. Yes, they’d been flirting—Otabek could admit that now, if only to himself. He had felt happy there with Yuri in a way he had never felt before. He’d been completely himself, and he was fairly certain Yuri had too, not hiding behind a cool professional mask or the petulant punk persona he adopted when he felt out of his element.

Otabek had liked that version of Yuri. Everything that happened later that day—Katsuki and Victor’s sappy duet, going out onto the ice with Yuri, ripping the glove off with his teeth, and that kiss.

That kiss.

Everything about the exhibition had pushed their newfound friendship off balance—stolen the spotlight from the quieter moments that were what had made Otabek feel so strongly about Yuri in such a short time.

But after Yuri had fled, Otabek hadn’t had the courage to chase after him. He left the banquet half an hour after he got there—Yuri didn’t show up and Otabek couldn’t bear pretending that everything was all right—then packed and caught a plane early the next morning.

He tried to be rational, telling himself that it wouldn’t work. Both he and Yuri had to focus on their own careers, and Yuri was only fifteen. And anyway, Otabek couldn’t figure him out—stalking Otabek to clubs and leering at him in the locker room one minute, then all shy smiles and flushed cheeks the next.

Yuri was a chaotic mass of contradictions. He was intelligent but reckless, world-weary but naive, volatile but vulnerable. He had all the grace of a dancer and all the awkwardness of a teenager. The combination of all these qualities made him dizzying and compelling.

Irresistible.

Impossible.

It would never, ever work.

Otabek’s heart, however, was apparently unwilling to give up. It raced when he thought of that kiss in the shadows. It ached when he pictured Yuri’s wide eyes before he turned and ran.

Otabek could think of nothing but Yuri, and his skating was suffering as a result. When he got to the rink for practice that morning, his movements were uncoordinated, his focus scattered.

“Where is your head, Beka?” his coach asked.

_In St. Petersburg_ , Otabek thought.

“Are you unwell?”

Otabek shook his head.

After a painful pause, Otabek steeled himself to ask for the unthinkable: some time off.

“A week?” his coach said. “That’s a long time.”

“I’ll stay in shape—I promise. I’ll work out every day and try to find a place to skate,” Otabek said.

It would be easy to find a place to skate, if Yuri let him stay. But he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going, not just yet.

*****

Once he made up his mind, getting where he needed to be seemed to take forever. Otabek had to change not just planes but _airports_ in Moscow. When he finally touched down in St. Petersburg in the late afternoon, he made his way straight to the training facility Yuri called home.

Otabek thought there might be security, a guard or at least a receptionist asking all kinds of questions, but he entered unchallenged and wandered through the building, looking for someone to ask for directions.

The first person he came upon was Yuri himself. Otabek had been nervous—sure that he was being stupid, showing up unannounced like this—but finding Yuri so easily made it seem like fate was on his side.

Otabek took a moment to drink in the sight of him. He prayed that Yuri would be happy to see him, or that he could at least be convinced to listen to Otabek’s explanation. But just in case Yuri rejected him outright, he wanted to steal another memory.

Yuri was slumped on a couch in a large open room that seemed to serve as both rec room and cafeteria. He must have showered after practice, leaving his flaxen hair dark with water. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, and his head bobbed ever so slightly to the music playing through his earbuds.

After he’d looked his fill, Otabek stepped into the room. Yuri caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately turned his head.

When Yuri saw Otabek, his eyes went wide. His mouth fell open, then widened into a grin. He was halfway out of his seat when he seemed to remember that he had every right to be angry—or at least circumspect. His expression collapsed, and he fell back onto the sofa. He yanked on the cord until his earbuds popped out.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I should have texted,” Otabek said. “But I was afraid you’d tell me not to come.”

Yuri shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t have tried to stop you, but—”

He broke off and bit his lower lip. Otabek averted his gaze, determined not to think about what it would be like to nibble on that lip himself.

“Yuri, I wanted—”

“Well, well,” said a woman’s voice behind Otabek. “If it isn’t the _Hero of Kazakhstan_.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Yuri growled. “Shut the hell up and get out.”

Otabek turned and came face to face with Mila Babicheva. He recognized her from competitions over the years. She was glaring at him, hands on her hips, like a disapproving schoolteacher. He felt caught, though he hadn’t been doing anything wrong.

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later, because Yuri keeps complaining about you.” Mila’s stern expression softened until she looked downright amused. “He must like you.”

“ _Baba_ ,” Yuri snarled.

But Mila only laughed.

“We were about to have dinner,” she said. “You’ll join us, of course.”

At first, not having Yuri to himself was frustrating, but Otabek quickly recognized Mila’s presence as a blessing in disguise. She was too talkative and bossy to allow Otabek to feel shy, and having another person around gave him and Yuri time to get used to simply being in the same room again after so many weeks apart.

Mila acted as head chef, recruiting both boys to chop vegetables for a salad while she seasoned and baked half a dozen salmon fillets. As they ate, several other athletes came in to make their own dinners, but other than a polite nod or a few words of greeting, they didn’t interrupt.

“We’ll do the dishes,” Otabek offered once they had eaten. “You did most of the cooking.”

“Ah, but now Yuratchka has to do his homework.” Mila patted Yuri on the head like an obedient puppy. “You have that geometry test tomorrow.”

Yuri’s blushed. his eyes cut to Otabek. Clearly he didn’t like Mila bringing up a subject that highlighted his youth, but Otabek had only just finished school himself. He was trying to make up his mind about enrolling at university or waiting until after he retired from skating. He wasn’t about to disrupt Yuri’s studies.

“I can still help clean up, and Yuri, while you’re working, maybe I could shower?” Otabek asked. “It was a long flight.”

“Where are you staying?” Mila asked, her tone syrupy sweet. “I know you’re not planning to stay with Yuri.”

“Oh, uh—”

Otabek looked at Yuri for guidance. He rolled his eyes. That wasn’t much help, so Otabek mumbled something about finding a hostel.

“For now, you can use the shower room,” Mila said. “It’s downstairs, near the rink.”

“Thank you.”

“Run along and get your geometry book, Yuri.”

Yuri grumbled but headed for the stairs at one end of the long room. When he was gone, Mila turned to Otabek.

“Thank you for helping with the dishes.”

“Of course,” Otabek said. “Thank you for dinner.”

He filled the sink in the kitchen area with sudsy water and placed the dishes in while Mila finished clearing the table. Once the last plate was soaking, Mila picked up a towel and started drying the dishes that Otabek had already washed.

“I’m very glad to get a chance to talk with you, Otabek,” Mila said as she placed clean glasses back in the cabinet. “I’ve known who you are for a long time, but it’s nice to actually meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Otabek continued scrubbed the glass pan Mila had used to bake the salmon. She stopped working and stood nearby, just watching.

“I also wanted to warn you: if you break Yuri’s heart, I’ll break your legs.”

“I won’t.”

He turned to meet her gaze, expecting her to wear a teasing smile, but her expression was serious. She continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Both of them. In several places. You’ll be lucky to walk again, much less skate.”

“I _won’t_.”

After studying him for several long moments, she finally smiled.

“I’m just looking out for my little angry ballerina,” Mila said. “You understand.”

Before Otabek could answer, Yuri burst into the room. “What did you call me, _baba_?”

Mila laughed as she crossed the room to caress Yuri’s cheek. “My little angry ballerina,” she repeated.

He looked mad as a wet cat, but Otabek could tell there was no real malice in their constant insults and bickering. It was comfortable, like siblings squabbling over who gets the last cookie.

“Grab your bag,” Mila said to Otabek. “I’ll show you the way to the showers while Yuratchka gets started.”

*****

Refreshed from his shower, Otabek returned to the rec room, where Yuri was lying on the couch, scrolling on his phone. His textbook was open on the table where they’d eaten dinner, surrounded by scribbled-on papers.

“You’re done?” Otabek asked.

Yuri looked up and grinned. “Close enough.”

“I don’t want Mila to come after me if you fail your geometry test.”

Yuri jumped up, made his way to the table, and stacked his papers up. “The test will be easy. The math tutor is an idiot.”

Otabek decided not to press. Now that he and Yuri were alone, he wanted to explain himself.

Yuri stared down at his books, then suddenly demanded, “Are you really going to stay at a hostel? You can stay with me if you want. I mean, I want you to . . . if you want to.”

He bit his lip again, in that inadvertently tempting way.

“Are you allowed to have overnight guests?” Otabek asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“That was just Mila. She thinks she’s in charge.”

“If you’re sure it’s okay,” Otabek said.

Yuri nodded. “Let’s go.”

Otabek followed Yuri upstairs—definitely not noticing how nicely his jeans fit him—and down a long hallway to a dark green door. Yuri looked a little shy as he unlocked the door and ushered Otabek into his apartment. The first thing Otabek noticed was a fluffy, sleepy-looking cat.

“You have a cat?”

“Her name is Potya.”

Otabek bent to pick her up.

“Careful,” Yuri said. “She’s not friendly.”

“Don’t worry,” Otabek answered as he scratched under Potya’s chin. “I have a talent with prickly felines.”

Yuri shot him a mock-disgusted glare in response, then tossed his school things onto a chair in the corner of the tiny living area.

The place was cluttered in a homey kind of way: sweatshirts draped over the back of the chair, a phone cord snaking out from behind the couch, three mugs on the table with a half inch of coffee left in the bottom of each.

Yuri flopped down onto the faded couch and looked up at Otabek.

“Sit,” Yuri said, slapping the cushion beside him. “It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

Otabek let his backpack fall off his shoulder, caught the strap in the crook of his elbow, and eased it onto the floor. Potya protested all the resulting jostling, and as soon as he sat on the couch, she jumped out of his arms, curling up next to Yuri. He rubbed her ears, and she closed her eyes in pleasure. Her front paws kneaded Yuri’s thigh.

Otabek waited for a cue from Yuri about how to behave. Would they start right in with the heavy stuff? Or try some small talk first?

The room was silent other than Potya’s quiet purring and a few creaks from the old radiator under the window. They both started talking at almost the same moment.

“Yuri—”

“Why did—oh.”

“You go ahead,” Otabek said.

Yuri let out a little irritated huff, then lifted his chin and looked Otabek right in the eye.

“Why did you come, really?” Yuri asked. “You want Yakov to be your coach or something?”

“No,” Otabek said. “I came to see you. To apologize.”

Yuri frowned. “What are you sorry for?”

“What happened after the exhibition.”

Yuri just stared.

“The kiss,” Otabek said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry you kissed me?” Yuri asked.

He sneered as he spoke, but not quickly enough. Otabek saw the pain in his eyes—just a flash before he was able to mask it.

“No, of course not,” Otabek answered.

“Then what are you sorry for?”

“The way I did it.”

Yuri stared at the cat, like he was determined not to look at Otabek.

“It was our first kiss. It shouldn’t have been so….” Otabek groped for the right word. The kiss had been amazing— _scorching_. But it had been too raw. “I mean, it was—Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Yuri still didn’t say anything.

“But—” Otabek tried to think of a tactful way to ask what he wanted to know but decided there wasn’t one. He would just have to come right out and say it. “Was it your first kiss?”

“You still think I’m some kind of kid!”

“You are a kid!”

“It wasn’t my first kiss!”

But Yuri’s eyes cut to the side as he spoke. He was lying.

“Please,” Otabek said, leaning close to rest a hand on Yuri’s arm. “Yuri—”

“It _wasn’t_.” Yuri glared at Otabek from behind his bangs.

Otabek waited.

Yuri finally lowered his gaze, and a faint blush crept over his fair skin.

“It wasn’t the first, but it was the first one that mattered.” After the admission, Yuri’s embarrassment disappeared quickly, and his eyes once again glittered with anger. “But I guess it didn’t matter to you.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me? You didn’t even try. You just left without even saying goodbye.”

“After that kiss, you looked—” Otabek ran hand through his hair. “I thought I scared you.”

“I wasn’t _scared_.”

But he had been.

“I thought I screwed up,” Otabek said. “You ran away, and then you didn’t even come to the banquet. I thought you weren’t—”

“Bullshit,” Yuri said. Then he fell silent again.

Otabek took a deep breath. “Maybe I was scared too.”

He stole a glance at Yuri, who looked surprised at the confession.

“But I’ve been sorry ever since,” Otabek said. “So I decided to stop being a coward. To stop being stupid. I bought a plane ticket, and here I am.”

When Yuri next spoke, it seemed like he was trying to sound grumpy, but Otabek could hear he was nervous. “Why did you wait so long?”

“I tried to put you out of my mind,” Otabek said. “But I couldn’t.”

Something in Yuri relaxed upon hearing that—just a subtle shift in his posture and expression. It made Otabek brave. He reached out for Yuri’s hand, and Yuri let him take it.

“So I guess you’re stuck with me,” Otabek said.

Yuri rolled his eyes, like Otabek had said the most ridiculous, sappy thing ever, but he was smiling too. Otabek wanted to pull Yuri into his arms, but there were a few things he had to say first.

“Do you remember what I told you about Yakov’s training camp? My skating? About how I had to figure out my own way?”

Yuri’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but after Otabek squeezed his hand, he nodded.

“I realized I have to do that now, too.”

“You’re going to go to Canada? That’ll make it hard for us to—”

“No, I’m not joking around.”

Yuri looked away. Otabek wished he hadn’t scolded.

“I just mean I have to figure out what works best for me,” Otabek said. “For _us_. No one else needs to know anything about it. It’s none of their business.”

“So what does that mean?” Yuri asked. “You’ll be with me, but we have to pretend? To hide? Because you’re worried about people judging you? Because I’m a _kid_?”

“No, wow, I’m not saying this right at all. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I just mean they don’t get a vote on what we do.”

“Then why do you keep backing off?”

“I want to go slow,” Otabek said. “Really slow. Not because of what anyone else thinks. I got that all confused in my head too. It’s because of what _I_ think.”

Yuri pulled his hand away and sat up bolt upright, his face turned away. Finally, he said, in small voice, “Does this mean . . . you don’t want me?”

“No!” Otabek fairly dove across the couch—sending poor Potya scrambling to the floor, indignant—and tugged Yuri close. “No, I want you like crazy.”

Yuri hugged him back fiercely.

“I rush ahead,” Otabek said. His lips brushed Yuri’s hair, silky soft. “I think—I think it’s because I have trouble getting close to people. Once I feel connected—” Otabek drew Yuri impossibly closer. “I just don’t want to put too much pressure on you.”

Yuri pulled away, already opening his mouth to protest, but Otabek rushed to explain.

“Not because I think you’re a dumb kid who can’t handle it. I’m a kid too. I can’t handle it. I want to go slow so I don’t screw it up.”

Laughter bubbled up out of Yuri, muffled where his face was mashed into Otabek’s shoulder.

“We have all the time in the world,” Otabek said. “We can go slow.”

Yuri relaxed against him. Otabek bent his head to drag a kiss up the side of Yuri’s neck.

“Savor every minute,” Otabek whispered, his lips moving right against Yuri’s skin.

Yuri shivered, his fingers digging into Otabek’s shoulders.

“ _Otabek_.”

After another tight hug, Yuri pulled away a little. Otabek started to object, but Yuri only shoved him until he was slouched back against the couch cushions, then came to curl up under Otabek’s arm, his head on Otabek’s chest.

It was perfect. Having Yuri close. Otabek didn’t ever want to move. He’d said everything he’d come to say, and Yuri seemed to understand.

Maybe it wasn’t impossible.

They stayed like that for a long time. Until Yuri let out a huge yawn. Then he rubbed one eye with his fist, adorably sleepy.

“Time for bed,” Otabek said.

He ruffled Yuri’s hair, then kissed his cheek. Yuri scowled, but that was all for show. It was obvious he liked the innocent affection.

After brushing his teeth, Otabek gave Yuri a turn in the bathroom while changing his jeans for sweatpants. He had settled down on the couch with a blanket that had been folded over the arm when Yuri emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush jutting out of his mouth.

“You know—” Yuri began, but he broke off when he saw Otabek lying there, his legs bent awkwardly on the tiny sofa. Yuri took the toothbrush out of his mouth.

“This is ridiculous,” Yuri said. “You should take the bed.”

Otabek shook his head.

“Come on,” Yuri said. “I nap there all the time. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking your bed. You have practice tomorrow. You need your rest.”

“You’ve been on a plane forever. You need rest too.”

“Yuri—”

“We could share the bed,” Yuri said.

Then he stood there, in the middle of the room with his toothbrush in one hand, looking startled at his own words.

After an awkward pause, Otabek said, “Okay.”

Yuri nodded and stuck the toothbrush back in his mouth.

“Just for sleeping,” Otabek said as he pulled himself off the couch.

“We’ll see,” Yuri said.

Otabek stifled a laugh at the sight of Yuri trying to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively with toothpaste foam dripping from one corner of his smile.

But when they slipped under the covers, Yuri stayed on the far side of the bed, his whole body stiff with nerves. Otabek was careful to be still, not wanting to spook him.

The silence was interrupted by voices in the hallway outside Yuri’s door, but they faded quickly as whoever it was continued on their way.

Yuri still hadn’t moved.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, Otabek said, “Your bed is really comfortable, Yuri.”

Otabek cringed. What a stupid thing to say. But Yuri inched closer.

After another pause, Yuri leaned against Otabek’s arm, just a little. Then, through the darkness, he whispered, “How long are you staying?”

“I can stay a week, if you’ll let me.”

Yuri relaxed a tiny bit more. “I have plans this weekend.”

“It’s fine,” Otabek said immediately, ignoring his disappointment. “I don’t want to be in your way. I can go back sooner.”

It was quiet so long, Otabek wondered if Yuri had fallen asleep.

“I’m going home.”

“To Moscow?”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s so far. You’re going that far for just the weekend?”

“It doesn’t take all that long.” Yuri yawned. “And it’s my grandfather’s birthday.”

“Oh.”

Yuri’s elbow nudged Otabek’s ribs.

“You could come with me,” Yuri said. “If you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. I want to meet him.”

Otabek could almost hear Yuri thinking about the implications of this.

“He’ll make us sleep in separate rooms,” Yuri said.

“Of course!” Otabek said, a bit shocked that Yuri could imagine it would be any different in his grandfather’s house. “So your grandpa knows you’re gay?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri said, like it didn’t matter much. “He’s probably figured it out.”

Otabek hoped Yuri wasn’t being overly optimistic.

“Does your family know?” Yuri asked.

“I told my mother,” Otabek said. “I went home right after the Grand Prix Final, and I told her. Turned out she’d seen a picture in the paper of you hugging me after my exhibition skate, so she was wondering.”

“You told her . . . about me?”

“Yes.”

Yuri didn’t answer.

Otabek turned onto his side and placed a cautious hand on Yuri’s side.

“Yuri?”

Yuri answered with a sleepy hum, barely stirring.

Otabek slid his hand up over Yuri’s heart.

“I’m happy to be here. With you.”

_Was that too sappy? Yuri doesn’t like that kind of thing._

Otabek waited out the agonizing pause that followed.

Yuri placed his hand over Otabek’s and settled back against him a little closer. Otabek pushed his face against Yuri’s neck and let out a happy sigh.

Maybe this could work.

Yuri was a person of extremes, but those extremes didn’t define him, and they didn’t have to define their relationship. He wasn’t a boy succubus, nor was he an untouchable innocent. He was neither. He was both.

And Otabek was more than half in love with him already.

“Hm,” Yuri said, as if something troublesome had just occurred to him.

“What is it?”

“So, the Hero of Kazakhstan likes to cuddle?” A huff of disbelief escaped from Otabek’s chest before he pounced on Yuri in a merciless tickle attack. Yuri screeched in loud protest, kicking his feet, wriggling in Otabek’s arms until they were face to face.

This time, Otabek didn’t hold back.

It was everything a first kiss should be. Full of tenderness and hope and the promise of laughter. The fact that it was their second kiss really didn’t matter at all.


End file.
